


Too Sauced to Care

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I wrote this when I was drunk., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:04:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the big, bad Silver Fox gets utterly shitfaced sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Sauced to Care

“Holy— how drunk are you?” Iain demanded, trying to catch Greg’s hands before they went somewhere too pleasant to describe. 

The older detective snorted in the most undignified way, pressing his face against Iain’s neck. “More than I intended.” 

He was sauced. Absolutely fucking pissed — and he loved it. He didn’t get shitfaced all that often. It was a real treat.

He fought Iain’s grip and pushed his fingers past the waistband of the smaller man’s trousers.

Iain’s flushed a very dark shade of red. 

”Let’s go home,” Greg muttered, his teeth touching the overly sensitive skin of Iain’s neck as he spoke.

Christ, those fucking teeth. Iain fought back a groan. 

“I’m trying,” he mumbled. How the hell he was supposed to hail a cab with Greg groping him like a public school boy… he felt dizzy. A firm, experienced hand slid into his pants — he yelped.

Greg chuckled. Cackled, really — and didn’t relent. He didn’t like relenting. At home, or at work, he was the relentless type. Iain knew it, but he wasn’t used to Greg being so bloody fucking relentless when they were in public, on a bloody streetcorner.

“For Christ’s sake, man…” But he was grinning. He was grinning from ear to ear because how often did Greg actually get so drunk that he utterly forgot himself in public?

Never.

Iain had been shoved into a cab. Greg and Dan had escorted Sally home. Even Dan had been picked up, tossed over Greg’s shoulder, and carried to a bench where he could sober up. He’d been sick first, but in all fairness — most of them had.

It was ritual. 

But Greg defied tradition. He defied logic. He defied human nature in his uncanny ability to absorb alcohol and never exhibit any symptoms. And if his hand hadn’t been gripping Iain in the most alarming way while they were out in the open, the younger man might have been more compliant.

Then again, they were standing next to a park. A park that was so very tempting.

“Home,” Greg insisted, and Iain bit back a slew of curse words. Home. Who fucking needed a home — parks suited hobos just fine, didn’t they? 

He assumed they did. 

“Are you s—” Greg’s perfect, beautiful teeth nipped at his shoulder and he bit his lip to keep from making the most inappropriate noises. “Home,” he squeaked, pulling away from the other man. Away from his mouth, and his hands, and the warmth of his alcoholically-fuelled body. Christ, he was better than a fucking heater sometimes. 

Iain threw out his arm, flagging down a London cab. Greg walked into the door, and chuckled obnoxiously. 

“Shoreditch,” Iain mumbled to the cabbie, giving their address. 

He yanked the door open, pushed Greg into the backseat, and made himself comfortable in the front. Cabbies had probably seen worse. In fact, he’d seen worse during his brief stint as a constable. But that didn’t mean they had to make themselves a menace just because they could. 

He glared over his shoulder at the silver fox of a man stretched across the back. “So help me god, if you pass out…”

Greg let out a loud, unpleasant snore.


End file.
